Down Warm Springs Creek Trail
You know, Steve would have liked to have been here, surrounded by all of his friends. I am proud to be counted among them and proud to say that he was my best friend.
The last time I saw Steve was a year ago on July 4th. We visited the Boughtons in Hailey, marched in the big parade carrying a ten-foot smile advertising his dentistry, went camping up by Redfish lake, and watched the fireworks from their back porch. But my favorite memory is of the last bike ride I ever took with him, because I had Steve all to myself. It was easily one of the best and the hardest days of my life. I hope you’ll indulge me if I tell you the story of that epic journey.
Our ride starts out easily enough as it winds through the tiny town of Fisher. It seems to be very doable and I’m not breathing too hard, which is a good thing, since the clouds of mosquitoes are pretty thick in spots and encourage closed-mouth breathing. I even go ahead as Steve stops to talk to a local man who is out for a run. Since I have known him, he seems to have all the time in the world and is always ready to strike up an interesting conversation with someone along the way. I remember that one of his favorite things to do in Rome was to take in the passagiata, the evening stroll where everyone just walks and talks.
But Steve soon passes me and disappears up the rocky fire road we have been ascending for the past forty-five minutes. Granted, he is acclimated to mountain biking at six thousand feet of altitude, but then again, he is several years my senior, so it should be a wash. In spite of the effort, I am glad just to be here, riding in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho with Steve. Now the road has kicked up to about fifteen percent, which is very steep for a loose surface, and I find it impossible to continue, so I unclip and walk uphill for a brief stretch, huffing and puffing.
Finally, the slope eases a bit and I hop back on for the push to the top of this first climb. I catch up with Steve in a small clearing where he is taking a long pull from his water bottle and admiring the scenery, which, being Idaho, is spectacular. But now it’s decision time: Do we continue on our planned loop that includes the next climb—which I am definitely not looking forward to—or do we descend along Warm Springs Creek to meet up with the Salmon river, northwest of Stanley, a longer but hopefully easier route suggested by Tim, the mountain-biking owner of the local bakery? I know that I’ve got the legs for distance, so I vote for the creek trail. Steve agrees and we start descending.
Now, my experience mountain biking has been on local trails here in California, and a few ascents of Mount Burdell, a local 1,500 foot nob in Novato. I’ve handled some roughish fire roads, but nothing too taxing. Almost immediately, I find that I will be learning lots of new things as the trail zigzags down a scary-steep sandy hillside for what seems like at least a thousand vertical feet. I learn to take one foot out of the clips so that I can skid tripod-like around corners. I find myself holding my breath on more than one occasion as we hit tight hairpin curves that drop out from under us. And I learn that sometimes the safest way through a tight spot is simply to back off the brake levers and just “let ‘er rip.” Most of all, I don’t want to disappoint Steve. But my confidence is building with each mile and by the time we hit the bottom of the grade, I am feeling pretty good. Besides, Steve is letting me try out his new mountain bike and it is a dream next to by overweight bomber.
At the bottom, we encounter a small group of very fit-looking bikers who have just been down to Warm Springs Meadow and are now about to ascend the route we just came down. I don’t envy them a bit. One rider stops to ask where we’re heading. We tell him, and he gives us some advice about how to cross the meadow, where, apparently, the trail becomes a bit confusing. He says not to follow the trail all the way, but cut across to the fenceline on the other side, to avoid getting caught in a big mud bog.
In hindsight, I do remember him giving us a quizzical look and a quick once-over when he first learned of our plans. Perhaps he was thinking, what on earth are these two geezers doing out here? And do they really know what they’re getting into?
We thank him, say good-bye, and then enter the aptly-named Rock Garden, where the trail merges with a dry creek bed. Steve suggests that it may be a good time to get off and walk till the trail smoothes out. Thirty yards later it does and we find ourselves suddenly in Warm Springs Meadow.
Now I grew up hiking and camping in the Sierra Nevada, so I am used to alpine splendor, but this literally takes my breath away. The meadow is bursting with wildflowers of every color and our isolation only adds to the beauty. Unfortunately, I have not brought my camera, so I drink in the view, trying to create a permanent image in my memory. It is not hard to do.
We come to a narrow stream, too deep to ride through, so we step gingerly across, feeling the icy water seep into our shoes. We don’t know it, but crossing streams will be a frequent obstacle on this ride. As we continue on, three guys on dirt-bikes pass us noisily. I wonder if they are even supposed to be here at all, but they are only a momentary distraction as they quickly disappear up the trail with their whining machines. Once again, the meadow sounds take over.
The trail is easy to follow through the lush green meadow, but the going is deceptively difficult. I find that I have to be constantly on the look-out for small to medium round rocks to either side of the narrow dirt track. If I hit one of them on the down-stroke I will certainly being going for a trip over the handlebars at best, and could even break a crank. The thought of having to walk out of her while dragging a broken bike is not inviting. So I pedal carefully, eyes scanning the path for hidden obstacles.
This is where I get the first feeling that this ride may not turn out to be what it seems. That is because I am starting to hallucinate as we pedal across this beautiful meadow. Of course, this effect is caused by our focus on the sunken earth trail, which means that the brightly-colored flowers become a psychedelic blur. When we stop to get our bearings, Steve is apparently feeling the same way. We slow down a bit and it gets easier.
As the path gets more and more muddy, we realize that we have, indeed, taken the wrong path. We backtrack to where a very faint track splits off from the main path and heads off across the meadow to what we hope is the aforementioned fenceline. If many cyclists have been through here this spring, it is not very apparent. The track is more a vague impression than a trail. We cross through several beaver ponds with water up to our thighs. Finally, we are through the meadow and back into the woods. Warm Springs Creek is somewhere off to our left, though it sounds more like a river than a gurgling brook. Another hair rises on my neck.
The going through the trees is much easier now, and more of what I am used to. There are rolls and drops and whoop-de-do’s that make me feel like a kid again, zooming across empty lots on my three speed cruiser. It is now a couple of hours since we started, so we stop for lunch. We figure we’re probably about half-way, but can’t know for certain. I am still having the time of my life.
After lunch, the scenery becomes eerie as the forest gets denser. There are many dead or dying trees; I suppose from some sort of pine borer or beetle. At times we have to hoist our bikes over fallen snags. The canyon also narrows, imperceptibly at first, and then alarmingly. The roar of the creek gets louder.
(To be continued...)
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